Beyond Repair
by paperstorm
Summary: Part of my Deleted Scenes series, the tag for 'Everybody Loves A Clown', 2x2. Wincest.


**Contains dialogue from the episode 'Everybody Loves a Clown', it belongs to Eric Kripke and John Shiban.**

**Part of my Deleted Scenes series. Full list of fics in reading order available on my profile page :)**

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"You were right."

Dean looks up from the ground, hesitantly. "About what?"

Sam knows Dean's not going be happy about what he has to say right now. But he needs to get it off his chest, and Dean needs to hear it, whether he likes it or not. "About me and Dad. I'm sorry that the last time I was with him I tried to pick a fight. I'm sorry that I spent most of my life angry at him. I mean, for all I know, he died thinking I hate him."

Dean blinks, his jaw set and his gaze is steady and intense.

"So you're right. What I'm doing right now, it is too little. It's too late." Sam sniffs and his eyes fill with tears. "I miss him, man. And I feel guilty as hell. And I'm not alright, not at all."

Dean nods ever-so-slightly.

Sam takes a deep breath as his eyes burn and some wetness spills over. "But neither are you. That much I know."

Dean's jaw clenches a little more and his eyes narrow, shoulders tightening. He's not going say anything, Sam can tell, so he figures walking away from this conversation without getting punched in the face is the best he's going to get.

"I'll let you get back to work," he says softly. He turns around and walks slowly back toward the house, giving Dean every opportunity to stop him, but Dean doesn't.

When Sam reaches the front porch, he chances a glance over his shoulder at his brother. Dean's just staring at the Impala, glaring actually, like he's trying his best to make it explode with his mind. His whole body is stiff and rigid, and suddenly Sam's worried. Dean looks absolutely furious, and nothing good happens when he gets this mad. Actually, Sam can't _ever_ remember seeing Dean so angry before. So he slips down behind an overgrown bush, peering out so he can still see Dean but he's pretty sure Dean can't see him.

Dean's eyes shoot daggers at the car for another minute, and then he picks up a crowbar, palming it in his hand, and then lunges and smashes the window of the car beside him. Sam flinches at the resounding crash. Then Dean gets a good grip on the crowbar with both hands and brings it down violently onto the impala's trunk. Over and over, he bangs the bar into the trunk, throwing his whole body into it as he brutally beats the hell out of his baby. Seven, eight, nine, Sam can barely take it, watching his brother fall apart like this and not being able to do anything to help him.

"How could you leave me?" Dean shouts. "I don't know what I'm doing! I don't know what the hell to do!"

Dean grips the base of the crowbar and spins, swings it like a baseball bat and the tail-light smashes dramatically, sending shards of red glass everywhere.

"And I just got Sammy back! You always wanted him to come home and I brought him home! And I make him happy, I keep him safe like you wanted but you're supposed to be here with us!" Dean starts in on the left rear door now, swinging to accentuate his words. "We just-" _crash_ "-got-" _crash_ "-Sammy-" _crash_ "-back!" _crash_.

Sam cringes with each hit and the tears spill down his cheeks, but Dean doesn't let up.

"_Fuck_!" he bellows. "I don't …" Dean coughs pitifully and collapses against the car. "What the fuck am I supposed to do?" he says weakly, panting and letting the metal bar clatter to the ground.

Sam twitches. Every cell in his body wants to be there, to run over there right now and wrap Dean up. It kills him to see his big brother in so much pain. Since before Sam can even remember he's always felt every emotion symbiotically with Dean. Before he could even talk, probably. Dean's told him before how when he was a baby, Dean would just touch his face sometimes and that it felt like a baby Sam knew exactly what Dean meant. Everything Dean's ever gone through, in his own way Sam went through it too. Dean was everything. _Is _everything. He's everything Sam has and he's everything Sam wants and seeing him hurting like this is like a steamroller over Sam's chest.

He wants so much to pull Dean into his arms and hold on tight until Dean stops resisting and gives in and allows Sam to comfort him. But Sam doesn't, because Dean _wouldn't_ give in. Not now, not like this. He'd just push Sam away, physically if necessary. So Sam leaves, glancing over his shoulder at Dean – now leaning over the car with his elbows resting on the hood, head hung and chest heaving – and then Sam goes back inside.

The first thing he sees as he walks through Bobby's kitchen is Dean's leather jacket draped over one of the chairs and that … that used to be Dad's. The thought hits Sam strangely, a little off center somehow, like he's suddenly realizing something that he really knew all along. The jacket was Dad's, the car was Dad's, the music was Dad's, even the ring Dean wears was Dad's at one time. Sam doesn't know when that last one got handed down. He can't remember specifically when Dean started wearing the silver band, and he can't believe he never _asked_. He sees the ring every day; feels it cold against his skin when Dean touches him, feels it digging into his fingers when Dean grips his hand as they fall into each other. And he never thought to ask when Dad gave it to Dean, or why.

The _real men don't cry_ crap Dad picked up in the marines, the way Dean never sits with his back to the door in a diner, the way he is almost obsessive compulsive about keeping the guns clean, the way he outright refuses to let anyone else work on his car, even now when she's smashed to pieces and Dean could probably really use Sam's help. But he won't take it, because Dad wouldn't have taken it either. Dad never took any help from anyone. So much of John Winchester has bled down into Dean and Sam didn't even know the man. Not really. Not the way Dean did.

Sam's spent the week since Dad died trying desperately but in vain to understand what Dean's going through and he now realizes that it's not because he isn't trying hard enough, it's because he _can't_ – he'll never know how Dean really feels. To Sam, John Winchester was a father, and he's sad for the loss of his father. But Dean spent his whole life trying to be just like Dad. And now that he's gone, Dean probably feels like he has no anchor, no one to show him the way and no one to turn to, and even more than the grief over the loss of a loved one, Dean's probably also really _scared _right now. He has to be the one in charge now, the one who has all the answers.

Sam hears a few more loud bangs and shouted curses echoed from the junk yard, and he aches inside with each one like he was standing right there beside Dean. His eyes prickle again, and _fuck_, this hurts. Dad should still be alive and Dean shouldn't be so upset and Sam should be able to make it all better but he can't. It hurts a lot. Sam sniffs pitifully and starts making his way up the stairs to the guest room, because he can't bear to listen to Dean anymore – shouting at no one and destroying the car that represents their father and _home_; the only real home Sam's ever had.

Rummaging through his duffle bag just for something to do, Sam's fingers knock against Dad's journal, and he picks up the heavy book and runs his fingers over the worn cover. This is it, the only thing Dad left them. And there's nothing in it that will help them with the demon, nothing. Sam's looked. He's looked through this stupid thing more times than he can count, he's probably got it close to memorized by now. It helped them with the Wendigo and it helped them find Daniel Elkins and the Colt but it won't help them find the demon – the only hunt that's ever really mattered. Sam unfastens the clip and flips absently through the pages and pictures and newspaper clippings, but he knows he's not going to find anything useful.

Just when Sam's reached the end and is about the chuck the thing back into his bag, something that looks like his own face catches his eye and he pauses. Tucked into a little pouch on the back cover is a small stack of old, bent photographs, that all appear to be of him and Dean. Their ages are varying but they're smiling in every one. Sam frowns for a minute, wondering where they came from, but then he remembers – these are the pictures that woman found in their old house. In Lawrence. She – shit, Sam can't even remember her name. He remembers looking through the stuff in the box she gave them later that night, but then he can't remember ever thinking about it again.

Dean kept them. Sam can't believe Dean actually kept them. He laughs a little, moving to sit on the edge of one of the beds so he can look through them. He barely recognizes the boys smiling up at him. They look genuinely happy. There's one, Dean looks about fourteen in it, and he's carrying Sam, piggy-back style. They've both got these ridiculous grins plastered on their faces, like they're having the most fun they've ever had in their lives. Sam can't physically remember ever being that happy. Dean is gorgeous in the picture; his skin is tanned brown, making his freckles stand out, his eyes are bright and his smile lights up his whole face. It's been a really, really long time since Sam's seen Dean smiling like that.

"Hey."

Sam jumps a little and looks up to find Dean right beside him, looking down at him.

"Shit, man, you scared me!" Sam laughs shakily.

"Gotta keep that guard up, Sammy. You okay?" Dean reaches out to wipe the tears off Sam's cheeks; Sam didn't even realize he was crying again.

"Yeah, I'm – " Sam shrugs and gestures with the photographs in his hand. "I'm okay."

Dean grins. "Just sittin' up here cryin' over old pictures?"

Sam laughs quietly in spite of himself. "Somethin' like that."

Dean ruffles his hair affectionately and then he swings a leg up and around Sam's body and joins him on the bed, straddling Sam from behind. Sam exhales heavily and leans back into Dean's strong chest; Dean's arms snake around Sam's waist and hold on.

"You look really happy in that one." Dean nods toward the piggy-back picture that Sam can't seem to put down.

"That's what I was just thinking about you," he answers.

Dean presses a soft kiss to Sam's hair, and then rests his chin on Sam's shoulder. A few more tears manage to spill over the wet rims of Sam's eyes, and he slouches down a little so most of his weight is being supported by Dean.

"This is hard," he whispers.

"It's really hard," Dean agrees matter-of-factly. "Let's see the next picture."

Sam moves the picture to the back of the pile, revealing one where he couldn't have been more than a couple months old. He's lying on his back on the floor and Dean's sort of wrapped around him, his arm draped over Sam's round belly. Dean's lips are curved in a soft smile, but Sam's pretty sure they're both asleep in this one. It's kind of amazing. To think of himself as a helpless infant that depended on a four or five year old Dean to keep him safe, even in sleep.

"Now how did that little lump turn into all this?" Dean cracks, squeezing Sam's waist and shaking him playfully.

Sam manages a smile, but sets the pictures aside, beside Dean's leg on the bed. He can't look at them anymore.

"Sammy," Dean murmurs, nudging the side of Sam's face with his nose.

"It's – I'm okay. Sorry," Sam mutters, cheeks burning a little. He wipes the last of the wetness off his face and then pulls away from Dean and stands up. Half of him wants to grab onto his big brother and sob, and the other half wants to leave, to get as far away as he can. It's confusing, and suddenly Sam feels like he doesn't belong in his own skin anymore. He settles for leaning awkwardly against the chest of drawers in the corner and trying not to look at Dean – if he gets a direct view of those vivid green eyes he's gonna fall apart.

"I fucked up the car," Dean says quietly.

"You what?" Sam blinks, hoping Dean'll buy his surprised face.

"After you left, I … I picked up a crowbar, and I smashed a window on one of Bobby's old cars. And then I beat the trunk of the Impala all to hell."

Sam is quiet for a minute, pretending to process the information. "Why did you do that?"

"I don't know," Dean mutters, sighing in exasperation. "You just – pissed me off. I don't know how you do that. I was dealing, man, I was doin' good. And then you get that sad look all over your face and you talk for thirty seconds and then all of a sudden everything's messed up again." He pauses and laughs a little. "God, you're like a fuckin' emotional sniper sometimes."

"I'm sorry," Sam mumbles.

"No, don't – it's not your fault. You were just being honest. I just …" Dean heaves a heavy sigh and stands up, taking a few steps away and scrubbing a hand over his face. "I don't know what I'm supposed to be feeling, here, man. I'm … angry. Like, really fuckin' angry. And … I don't know, it's all mushed together in my head."

"I know. Me too. Everything happened so fast. I'm not even sure it's all caught up with me yet."

Dean nods but doesn't say anything, and Sam takes a chance and pushes a little further.

"If – I'm here. Just want you to know that. If there's anything."

Dean rolls his eyes and then shoots an annoyed look at Sam. "If I feel like drinking tea and listening to classical music and talking about my feelings? Not gonna happen, dude."

"Dean, that's not – " Sam begins exasperatedly.

"Sam, no," Dean interrupts forcefully. "No! I meant what I said before, I'm not gonna hug and cuddle with you just because Dad's dead!"

"You realize that doesn't make any sense, don't you?" Sam snaps. "You were just hugging me like three minutes ago!"

"That – that's not the same thing."

"Why?" Sam demands. "Why is it any different?"

"Sammy – "

"No, don't 'Sammy' me! So what, you're down with it when it's you comforting me, but I'm not allowed to return the favor?" _Stupid, macho idiot_, Sam doesn't need to add.

"It's – just – God, please, can we not?" Dean heaves another sigh and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes.

"No! I don't get you sometimes!" Sam explodes, arms flailing helplessly to the sides. "Why are you trying so hard to hide from me?"

There's a death-glare on Dean's face now, like Sam has about fifteen seconds to shut the fuck up before Dean starts throwing punches. Dean loves him, Sam knows he does, to end of the world and back, but that doesn't mean he's above kicking Sam's ass. But Sam doesn't care, if he gets socked in the jaw for this then that's okay; he has to get it out. And if he has to shout it to make Dean hear him, then that's how it's going to have to be. He can't deal with Dean hiding himself anymore. It makes Sam feel like there's something else, something Dean's not telling him. And he _hates_ that feeling.

"Seriously, what the hell would be so awful about talking to me about this?" Sam yells. "About dealing with this like a _grown-up_ instead of running away, taking it out on the freakin' car!"

Sam braces himself a little, because that was a low blow and he knows it, but Dean doesn't even look mad. He looks … empty. Drained. All the light has gone completely out of his eyes and when he speaks his voice is quiet and resigned.

"I can't handle this right now, Sam. Please, I'm begging you. _Please_ just let this one go."

Sam has a few angry retorts on the tip of his tongue, just begging to be shouted, but Dean looks so exhausted, so emotionally worn down that Sam swallows the words back down. All his irritation melts away at the sight of Dean looking so small and sad.

"Yeah. Okay," he mutters, collapsing back down on the edge of the bed. "Whatever you want."

"I just need some time, need to figure things out," Dean says hesitantly.

"Figure what out?" Sam asks cautiously.

"Everything. What the hell we're gonna do now." Dean leans against the wall behind him, letting his head thud back on the wood. "I mean, we don't have the Colt, we have no idea what the demon's doing or where it is, we've kinda got nothing right now. I just … I don't know. I don't know what to do."

"Oh."

"What?"

"Just, with Dad and everything, I was thinking …" Sam sighs, trying to choose his words carefully. He might be reading a little too much into the fact that Dean's been distant lately. But then again, he might not be. "It's sorta felt like maybe the stuff with Dad was making you start to have second thoughts about, you know, the whole, brothers … thing."

"You – you mean, about you and me? Why would you think that?"

Sam shrugs. "I dunno. You haven't really touched me since … you know. Except for just now, I mean. And then today with Jo … and even before that. The last few weeks have been, weird. I know it's been a lot, though, with the accident and everything, so it's okay, if ..."

"Sammy …" Dean sighs and shakes his head. "I'm not. I stopped freaking out about the brothers thing a long time ago, years ago. No point, you know?" He moves back toward the bed and sits down beside Sam. "No point trying to fight this. Doesn't matter what I do, it won't go away. I always end up here. With you."

That's probably supposed to be a good thing, but for some reason it sort of makes Sam feel even _more_ insecure. "Would you – I mean, if you _could_ fight it, would you? Want to, I mean?"

Dean's eyebrows tilt up in concern and maybe slight confusion. "No, of course not. Look, a bunch of stuff happened all at once, with Dad and the demon and everything, and, my head, man, I don't know, it's like it's been spinning for a month straight. But it isn't about you, never was. Even when Dad was still … those last couple weeks when he was hunting with us, and we couldn't, you know. I – missed you."

Sam smiles and shifts a little closer to his brother. "Missed you too."

For a long moment, Dean doesn't say anything, just smiles softly and looks at Sam, really _looks_ at him like he hasn't done in a long time. "Your hair's gettin' long lately," Dean comments after a minute, reaching up and tugging gently on a strand near Sam's ear.

"Yeah." Sam scratches at his knee just for something to do with his hands. "Been thinking about cuttin' it short. Like yours. I haven't cut it since, shit, since Stanford, I guess. It's … kinda stupid for a hunter, you know?"

"No, don't. Don't want you to change."

Too. Don't want you to change _too_. Dean doesn't say it, but Sam hears it, and it breaks his heart a little bit. It seems like such an unimportant thing, but if Dean needs Sam to stay constant because everything else is spinning out of control, that's definitely something Sam can manage. He brings a hand up to brush over Dean's thigh, but his brother tenses again and pulls away, just slightly, but enough for Sam to notice.

"What's – " Sam begins, but Dean cuts him off.

"I can't. I just can't right now." Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and then stands up.

Sam's breath actually hitches a little as this throat twists. He's trying to be understanding, he really is, but that stings. "You … you can't even let me touch you?" he barely whispers.

"No, it's not …" Dean exhales harshly in frustration. "I can't handle you being all emotional and sympathetic right now! I don't fuckin' need this. I was doing fine! I – I'm sorry, Sam, I'm just … sorry."

Dean mutters something else that Sam can't make out, and then he stalks toward the door and leaves the room. He at least manages to not slam the door behind him, but that doesn't do much to soothe the powerful ache in Sam's chest. Sam's head is swimming. He feels dizzy and scratchy and uncomfortable, and it's kind of hard to breathe all of a sudden. He doesn't even understand what the hell just happened, all he knows is that it _hurts_. And the only thing that could possibly make it better, his big brother, just pushed him away and walked out the door.


End file.
